Domestic and Mundane Messrs Kirkland and Bonnefoy
by cowbellgalore
Summary: Fr/UK-UK/Fr:'The Domestic and Incredibly Mundane Existence of Messrs Kirkland and Bonnefoy'- is the full title but it doesn't fit. A collection of snapshots of Arthur and Francis through their domestic and incredibly mundane existence. -human names- AU
1. Fittingroom Fiasco

Arthur almost felt sorry for the poor fitting-room assistant, the key word being 'almost'. He had been on the receiving end of one of Francis's many temper tantrums –and they really were _tantrums_- on more than one occasion, so he could sympathise with the zit-faced, quaky-kneed, 'I'm-definitely-not-getting-paid-enough-for-this' teenager who was currently shaking in his boots.

Almost, because being an onlooker was proving to be incredibly entertaining, even if he did have to act as Francis's makeshift shopping trolley.

"Listen here, if I said I do not need a bigger size, then I _do not need a bigger size_." Francis mumbled something in French that Arthur snorted a laugh at and the young once fresh-faced adolescent swallowed at. "Ah, sorry, I forgot I am dealing with the English-speaking world. If you would be so kind as to fetch me my _correct_ size? The _smaller_ one?"

"Y-Yes, sir!"

As the youth scampered away, Francis heaved a dramatic sigh, to which Arthur rolled his eyes at. His bottom lip began to poke out, and Arthur knew what was coming. Big fat blue eyes were turned to him -and they could really only be described as _big_ and _fat-_, and Francis's love of theatre reared its ugly head.

Long hair gently swept back, hand to his heart. "Arthur? Do you think I'm-"

"No."

"-beautiful?" Arthur bit his tongue at Francis's mock hurt expression, only betrayed by the slight smirk taking over his pout. Francis gasped and clutched his head mid-swoon. "You don't think so? You think me ugly?"

"No."

"Filthy?"

"No!"

"Old?"

"Well, we are nearing our forties-"

"_Fat_?"

"We're both getting a bit soft around the middle, it's you and that damned French style with the cream and-"

"Oh, Arthur! Such hurtful words! Oh, agony! Death! Death! Where? Only the sweet sting of death-!"

"Are you quite done?"

"Pity the heart of sorrow-!"

"What will it take to make you _shut up_?"

Immediately Francis's stance was tall and straight, entirely businessman-like. He started intently at Arthur from around the tower of clothes he held. "I get to buy the socks without you-"

"THAT'S-"

"-_or_, you take me to the new French restaurant that opened down the corner, and you _know_ how gastronomically attuned I am. If it does not please me, I will complain about it for days on end until your ears fall off. I could easily take lunch with Antonio one day, but should you choose this option, every waking hour of your existence around me will be hell, and may I remind you that we live together." Francis leaned in close to Arthur, staring straight into his eyes with their noses touching. "Do you want to take that chance, _Monsieur_ Kirkland?"

Arthur swallowed and considered for a moment. "Two argyle pairs-"

"_Non_."

"At _least_ one!"

"Alright, but only because they are warm and practical." Francis grabbed Arthur's hand from under the clothes and shook it, nearly toppling the entire tower. "Pleasure doing business with you, _mon cher_." And then he kissed Arthur on the cheek and slunk away in the direction of the socks.

Arthur shook his head, once again unwittingly the victim of his boyfriend- _house-mate's _silly French antics, and was left with pile of unpaid for clothes. It wasn't the first time, and definitely not the last, and Arthur found himself suddenly overcome with emotion at the thought.

Idly he searched around for the cash register when he heard heavy breathing. The assistant from earlier came skidding around the corner of the fitting-rooms, scrabbling against the wall for leverage with his full hands before he managed to turn and brake just in front of Arthur.

"E-Excuse me, sir," he said to Arthur, "where is your husband?"

Hands busy with five pairs of argyle socks, Francis could not contain his grin at the echoing screams of the once fitting-room assistant.


	2. Bathroom Bothers

Steam billowed out when Francis opened the shower door and filled the room, effectively beginning to dampen the newspaper Arthur was trying to read. "Arthur, could you wash my back? The gym last night left me a little stiff."

"Stiff is the right word," Arthur muttered, flipping a page of his newspaper and snapping it out, "the answer is no-"

"How about-"

"And I am definitely _not_ washing your undercarriage."

"You sound like such an old man when you say that, Arthur."

"Good, then maybe you'll be less attracted to my wrinkly balls and I won't have to touch yours."

Francis gave a lopsided grin, not bothered in the slightest at the insult to his testicles. "Constipated, are you?"

Arthur grumbled under his breath.

"Diarrhea, perhaps?"

Arthur grumbled a little louder, and Francis couldn't help but heave a heavy sigh. "You ate Indian take-away again." It was not a question, and Arthur took a moment to gather his argument.

"It was only the butter-chick-"

"You _know_ it gives you an upset stomach, yet you keep going back! I am so _glad_ I did not fuck you last night, I cannot imagine- I am going to throw up simply thinking about it!" Francis gagged and shut the shower door, and the rest of his speech echoed off the glass. "I told you not to eat there- I leave you alone for _one night-_ Every time you say you will stop, that you cannot take another night after the curry and you still keep going back!" Slapping sounds soon followed and Arthur took comfort in the knowledge that Francis could still wash his own genitalia.

"I keep going back to you, don't I?" Arthur's voice was muffled, as if he only wanted the drug-dealer and accompanying police on the current page to hear.

"_I_ don't give you an upset stomach so bad that your lovely anus bleeds shit all day." Arthur rolled his eyes, hoping that Francis may have said something a little more endearing, but appreciated the compliment to his anus nonetheless.

A moment of silence between them passed, only halted by the sound of Francis turning off the water. Once again, he opened the glass door, fully intending to walk out- only to slam himself back in the shower. Through the steam-frosted glass, Arthur could slightly make out Francis bracing himself on the tiled wall and holding his nose. "My Go- _Arthur_! Open a window!"

"Was in here before you came in, it's your own fault." Arthur merely turned the page of his slightly soggy newspaper.

"Arthur, I need to get groceries before we starve to _death _in this house."

"Off you go, then."

"Arthur, if you order anymore take-out you are going to shit yourself inside-out."

"Then you should buy groceries."

"You do _not _expect me to- no, how foolish of me." Francis opened the shower door again, swinging it several times in an attempt to fan the smell away, before grabbing his towel from the rack and sprinting as fast as a naked wet Frenchman can in a slippery bathroom to the bedroom.

Francis would have felt sorry for Arthur and his poor stomach had Arthur actually been making attempt at hiding his shit-eating grin.

Arthur turned another page, grinning to the sports-section. "You're wetting the carpet."

"Oh go lick a toilet bowl- because I am _not_ cleaning that disgusting, foul, _inhuman_ mess up!"

"Don't forget to buy toilet paper."


	3. Morning Madness

The first time Arthur wakes up in their new apartment, it's also the very first time he and Francis wake up in the same bed together. Encounters of the intimate kind weren't infrequent, but somehow they had always ended up being on surfaces other than a bed, and when they even made it that far, one was always more inclined to leave during the night. They'd spooned while napping once in a while during the day, Antonio's babbling about the importance of siestas seemed to have rubbed off on Francis, but never had they physically gone to bed and spent the whole night sleeping together.

A warm sensation spreads through Arthur's body and swells in his chest. This is the_first time_ he will wake up with Francis next to him, and he stifles the smile that wants to spread itself across his lips. He doesn't open his eyes, but he knows there is morning light filling the room. The curtain wasn't properly closed last night, and he can see how it turns the back of lids red. If he opens his eyes, he thinks he'll see Francis, still asleep, because the bastard sleeps in like he has all the time in the world and a day to spare. The light leaking in probably does something to Francis's hair, like turn it gold or some tripe like that… and Arthur finds himself quite intrigued by that image.

Like hell he'd ever let Francis know, though. A compliment about how beautiful Arthur imagines him to be in the morning would be enough blackmail material for the whole year, and they've only just moved in.

Something shifts under his arm and Arthur is made aware that his limb is thrown over Francis's waist. Irrationality overcomes him and he tightens his hold to bring Francis closer, because hell, he can be romantic too, and he isn't about to have Francis upstage him _all_ the time. A slow morning initiated by Arthur would leave Francis quietly pleased for a while, and Arthur is looking forward to the 'quiet' part the most.

What he plans and what actually happens are two different things. He _plans_ for his eyes to slide open slowly, and depending on whether Francis is asleep or awake, he would do two things; he would either gently brush the golden, wheat-like, honey-hued, sunlight-soaked, luscious locks from Francis's face- he almost wants to punch himself in the face as the sickeningly sweet adjectives attached to his perfect vision of Francis in the morning float around in his head, but he thinks better of it and plans to bother Francis about it later in the day after they've snogged a bit-

_Or,_ give one of his rare smiles, charm the bed-sheets off Francis –because he'd already charmed the pants off him last night with the contents of his own pants, and don't you forget it- for a nice morning shag, and maybe coax him into buying some pastries for breakfast. Either way, Francis would flutter his eyelashes and talk in a breathy voice because he knows what it does to Arthur's groin, and it would all end with Arthur and his very satisfied sex drive.

Things don't go according to plan. Though he had planned on Francis being awake, Arthur hadn't planned for him to be staring back with shockingly wide eyes that are so bloodshot Arthur can barely see any white, the dark rings surrounding them making the overall effect of _tired_ even more prominent; his face is so pale, Arthur can see the veins in his forehead and cheeks, and his lips are pushed together in a grim line, so thin that one wouldn't think they'd been kiss-bruised and wrapped around a cock the previous night. Arthur swallows with difficulty, not quite sure what to make of the picture or what to feel. "Francis?"

"You snore like you are under water." Francis's voice is rough and thick, like the walls of his throat have stuck together. "You snore like you are _under water_."

Arthur simply stares back at Francis, his red eyes almost hysterical looking. Again he swallows, and the only thing he manages to spit out is "I do not!"

Francis's breathing quickens and Arthur truly believes he's about to go into hysterics. "Yes. _Yes_, you _do_. It sounds like you are under water and every time you breathe in, the tide goes out, and every time you breathe out, it sounds like water gurgling down a drain- and I do not know how you do that, it must be mucus, you must have an awful lot of mucus in your nostrils and we are taking you to a doctor to get this fixed because I am _not_ moving out of this apartment after how much trouble I went through packing my boxes and bringing them over here all by myself. We are going to live together and we are going to sleep in the same bed and that is only achievable if we_vacuum out your nose_."

"…Alright, first of all, you didn't bring your boxes over by yourself, you threw your hair over your shoulder at the door man and, not only did he take your boxes from downstairs up here, he took your boxes _from your apartment_, using _his car_, and he still asked if you wanted to go for coffee."

"To which I said no, because we are together, and we have moved in together, and we are going to the doctor together so we can fix this problem- _together_." By now, Francis's eyes are impossibly large and if they grow any more in size, Arthur thinks they're going to pop right out of their sockets. "I cannot spend another night staring at your silly face so sound asleep while I am next to you _suffering_ and _deprived_-"

"You- You- You could have slept on the couch! It's not like I enjoy sleeping next to you when I could have the whole bed to myself!"

"Yes, yes, that is why you wouldn't let go of me the whole night, hm? Why every time I tried to move away you would squeeze me harder, yes?"

"I- I- I did not!"

"You were asleep, how do you know? Oh, but I was there." Suddenly Francis's nose is pressed up against Arthur's, their faces close enough that Arthur can see the intricate pattern of the veins in Francis's eye. "You kept pulling me closer until I had to move onto my side because you were drooling in my ear- _look_." Francis's head snaps to the right and Arthur looks on with a shade of disgust when drips of saliva fall onto Francis's hair, until he turns back. "You would not let me go to the bathroom. Speaking of which-"

Francis throws off the bed-sheets and Arthur's arm, giving no sign of remorse when Arthur's hand hits him in the face, and staggers into the bathroom.

In a matter of minutes, Arthur's vision of a perfect, slow morning is completely ruined, and he can only place the blame on Francis- because who else's fault could it be? Certainly not his, and he certainly doesn't snore. He grumbles to himself, refusing to get out of bed even though his bladder starts making its presence known.

When Francis finally exits the bathroom, he looks considerably less tired and little more refreshed, the colour is returning to his cheeks though his eyes are still red and he barely picks up his feet as he pads around the room. He points an accusing finger at Arthur, now a cocoon on the bed, and adjusts the towel wrapped around his hair. "Do not think for a moment that I am not serious about going to the doctor. We are going as soon as possible, my dear Arthur, and I do not care in the slightest if we have to slice off your nose."

"Wanker," Arthur mutters under his breath, and Francis throws the towel that was wrapped around his waist at Arthur's face. For a moment, Arthur feels guilty for keeping Francis up all night- that is until Francis plops back into bed and onto him, and refuses to move his dead weight off of Arthur until he feels he is suitably rested.

It can only be the first of many mornings like this. Arthur can't say he and Francis would have it any other way.


	4. Inconvenient Illness

The sight of a sick Francis did various things to Arthur's brain and heart simultaneously.

Up top, his brain kept supplying smart remarks about how it was the French restaurant that Francis wouldn't stop talking about that gave him food poisoning, and it took a significant portion of his will-power not to let those remarks slip out of his mouth.

Slightly lower, his heart tightened in his chest- because world be damned, he _cared_about Francis, he wouldn't be living with the idiot, wouldn't be holding and tying his long hair back while he puked, wouldn't even be standing in the same room as the ill and terribly pale fool if he didn't love him. And it was for this precise reason that his heart constricted, because it hurt to see Francis in pain and not be able to stop it or be the one to have caused it.

Worryingly lower than that, Francis drenched in sweat and breathing heavily- well.

Francis suddenly went even paler, a magnificent feat considering he was already as white as a sheet, and Arthur was amazed at his own agility as he dashed to the side of the bed and lifted the bucket placed there for Francis, just in time before he emptied the contents of his abused stomach into it.

A strangled groan of pain was Arthur's only thanks, but one look at Francis's knitted brow and how he clutched at his stomach and he took it. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"How do you think? you silly man." Francis gagged and Arthur held up the bucket just in case. Francis waved it away, batting against Arthur's arm. "I am fine, just… tired. And in pain. And nauseas. And-"

Arthur held the glass of water that was on the bedside table up to Francis's mouth, effectively cutting off the beginning of his symptom rant. "Drink up, I don't want you to dehydrate. You'll die, or even worse, you'll complain about how little I care about you."

"I hate you." But Francis drank anyway. He took a big gulp, and tried to suppress a gag, before drinking the rest of the water much slower. Once he finished, Arthur set the glass aside and sat next to Francis, brushing away the strands that had fallen out of his ponytail, before untying it completely and starting again.

He tied in silence, a little worried that Francis wasn't even complaining about what he was doing to his beautiful hair. From the corner of his eye, he could see a sliver of Francis's stomach where his shirt had ridden up and the covers had slid down, his muscles tensing in sporadic spasms.

Arthur sighed once he finished, and scooted closer to the head of the bed, chin perched atop Francis's head. He thought of something to say to bring some sort of relief to Francis, because as much fun as it was to rile him up and watch his French charm turn nasty, it didn't change the fact that Francis was ill and in pain. He thought, long and hard, and then; "You know this is your own fault, right?"

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, for some unknown reason. Francis's eyebrows drew even tighter together, and Arthur knew that in a few weeks' time, he'd be on the receiving end of a very loud earful about how he would be the sole reason for any wrinkles Francis ever got. Somehow he couldn't argue with that.

Francis tipped up his head harshly, head-butting Arthur in the chin. Arthur shouted in shock, rubbing his chin and narrowing his eyes at Francis. "The hell was that for? You shouldn't move too much because-"

"_My_ fault? It was _your_ fault for letting me go in the first place!"

"…_My_ fault for letting you go? You're the one who went!"

"Yes, but you did not come with me so you did not complain and we did not go somewhere else instead to appease you!"

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything? How does that make any sense?"

"It makes perfect sense and you know it!"

"Have you puked your brains out?"

"I have _not_-"

Francis suddenly went pale again and before Arthur had any time to react, Francis had leant over the bed and thrown up, directly on Arthur's pants and socks.

It took all of five seconds for Francis to stop panting and regain enough breath to speak. "Th-That's what you get, for letting me go to that restaurant."

Francis had thrown up mostly just the water he drank earlier, but it took Arthur a moment to register the wetness sticking to his legs and seeping into his socks. Then he exploded like a red helium balloon pushed beyond its capacity. "FRANCIS!" He jumped off the bed, narrowly missing knocking the bucket in his haste to get off his pants, cursing and swearing colourfully in the process.

Francis looked on in distaste. "Really, Arthur, I am ill, please try to keep it in your pants."

More curses and swearing and threatening to tip the half-full bucket all over Francis before he calmed down and accepted that all he could do was to have a shower. He sighed, ignoring Francis's half-hearted apologies and shuffled to the bathroom, trying his best not to touch his sticky pants or step in his soiled socks and failing miserably.

When he reached the bathroom, he tried not to gag while he peeled off his socks and pants, glad at least his underwear was clean. He chanced a glance up at Francis and was immediately and horribly softened by the pitiful look he had on his face.

He trudged back towards the bed, careful of the wet spots now dotting the floor, and held out a hand. Francis eyed him curiously, looking entirely too vulnerable for Arthur's liking. "Come on, a hot shower would probably help you… I don't know, sleep."

Francis gave him a small smile and pushed back the covers. He took Arthur's hand and swung his legs over the side of the bed- and knocked over the bucket all over Arthur's feet.

Arthur very slowly let his chin fall to his chest as he inspected his feet, or at least what he could see of them, and tried his very best not to wiggle his toes and make it worse.

Francis bit his lip sheepishly. "I will only admit that was my fault if you promise I can complain all I want in the shower and you won't say a word."

"…Deal."


	5. Munchie Mahem

There were only so many things Arthur could handle in his relationship with Francis.

He accepted that sometimes Francis just needed to complain about something inane, such as traffic or how the neighbour's dog had taken a shine to his leg; he accepted that even if he cooked a perfectly decent meal, Francis would have something to say about it; he accepted that if he wanted Francis to dote on him when he was sick, he'd have to listen to how he could have avoided illness if he'd just sweated it out with sex- he even tolerated Francis snatching the tweezers out of his hands to pluck his 'hairy but endearing caterpillars oh God Arthur you've got snot in the corner, how did you manage that' eyebrows.

He could even handle Francis's aversion to pants and the looks the neighbours gave them when he took that aversion out into the back garden-… but Francis refusing to wake up at three in the morning to get him food was the _last straw_.

Arthur glared at Francis's face, hoping that if he had any potential for telepathic powers, Francis would open his eyes, get out of bed, and prepare something delicious for him.

An unholy and entirely inhuman sound erupted from Arthur's stomach, like the tar-pits of hell themselves resided in his body and currently gurgled in protest.

He'd eaten dinner- more like scoffed it down. Francis _did _make a brilliant roast beef, though whether Francis knew of Arthur's approval or not was to be discussed. Arthur liked to keep quiet about his appraisals, it kept Francis guessing, kept him on his toes. The fact that it was very entertaining to hear Francis complain about how much Arthur didn't appreciate his effort, how his hands would wave about dramatically like an octopus, was beside the point.

There was no explanation to Arthur's hunger other than greed- he could live with the knowledge that he was a greedy person. What he couldn't live with, however, was Francis sleeping through his ordeal.

Glaring didn't seem to do anything, and three prods to Francis's side proved fruitless. Arthur even stuck his foot (which had slipped out from under the covers while he was asleep and cooled in the process) against Francis's warm feet, and only got a muffled grumble for his trouble.

Francis looked peaceful; a trickle of drool slipping from the corner of his parted mouth, and his breathing was heavy. His eyebrows knit together slowly, and he mumbled in his sleep. Arthur brushed a stray lock of hair from Francis's face and tucked it behind his ear, tracing the shell gently with his finger and wondered what he dreamt of- before his hand made its way back to Francis's face and his thumb and pointer finger clamped tightly on his nose.

If Francis wasn't going to wake up himself, Arthur would make him.

It took a few moments before Arthur realised that Francis was breathing through his mouth –which would explain the drool- and that his plan to wake him up was doomed to fail from the beginning. Thwarted by Francis, and the bastard didn't even know it.

So Arthur did the only logical hunger-influenced thing to do. He slid his hand back under the sheets, and twisted Francis's nipple.

Francis bolted upright with a choked gasp, grabbing at his chest, and cried, "_I knew I should not have breastfed!_"

They were both silent, until Arthur made himself known to Francis, who was still clutching his chest and trying to inspect his aching nipple in the dark. "Ah…"

Francis turned frantically and nearly head-butted Arthur with his sudden movement. "Oh Arthur," he said, voice tight like his throat had collapsed in on itself, "I had the most horrible dream. I was pregnant- pregnant! And then I gave birth, but I do not know how I gave birth, I do not want to think where it came out- oh Arthur, it had your eyebrows- your _eyebrows!_ And I was breastfeeding and it stared at me and the eyebrows grew bigger and bigger and it _bit me_." Suddenly Francis gripped Arthur by the biceps and shoved their faces together, really head-butting Arthur this time. "You have to wear a condom from now on- I am still young and beautiful and _I cannot have your demon eyebrow baby!_"

Arthur blinked several times, mildly concussed brain trying to catch up with Francis's words and eyes going cross-eyed trying to focus in the dark. Once his mind registered that Francis was in fact insulting him, to some degree, his knee-jerk reaction began to kick in- before his stomach rumbled loudly and violently.

Francis nearly screamed. "You're _pregnant-!_"

"I'm not pregnant!" Arthur finally came back to himself, taking a moment to take a deep breath and gather his bearings. "And neither are you. It was a dream- _a dream_." He hissed when Francis made a noise as if he was going to disagree.

"Then what was that noise?"

Arthur groaned and rolled over to turn on his bedside lamp, earning a string of surprisingly tame French curses. His own eyes screwed shut in protest against the light, until he forced himself to open his lids and grow accustomed to the brightness. Francis seemed to be taking much longer, eyes still glued shut. "I'm hungry."

Francis's lids slowly slid open. "…You are hungry."

Arthur sighed, trying to keep his voice level. He _was _trying to influence Francis to vacate the warm bed, walk into the kitchen with its cold tiles at some ungodly hour in the morning to prepare something for him to eat. "Yes, I'm hungry- and… I was hoping… that you would, you know."

Francis merely blinked at him. "I would, you know?"

"…Cookmesomething."

"…Pardon?"

"Cookmesomething…"

"…Cook you something."

"Yes… please-"

Arthur's mouth snapped shut at Francis's look. It was _the look_, the one that told him that Francis thought he was an idiot of gigantean proportions and he was lucky such a kind soul like Francis put up with being in a relationship with him. Arthur would have made a snide remark about _that look_ if he weren't trying to sweeten his chances of a midnight snack. A different direction seemed appropriate.

"Darling, your hair always looks so beautiful in the light-"

"Oh you are not fooling anyone, you incredible oaf."

Arthur tried not to whine, that was such a Francis thing to do. His stomach made enough noise to get his point across, though. "_Francis._"

"No!" Francis huffed. "I am not getting up at-" He rolled over to check the time, and he nearly experienced whiplash in his eyelids from how fast the widened. "Three in the morning- my _God_!"

"But-"

"It is _three in the morning_, Arthur, this is _criminal_, and if you want to die a slow and painful death from how very blue your testicles will turn, then continue disturbing my sleep." And with that, Francis took the blankets with him as he turned over, burrowing his head deep in the fabric in a weak attempt to block out the light.

Arthur looked at Francis's back pitifully, hoping that he would suddenly change his mind. But despite Arthur's best efforts at trying to burn a hole through Francis's back, the now sleeping wanker stubbornly refused to turn back over.

Who did Francis think he was, depriving Arthur of much needed sustenance? Sure it was… reasonably early, perhaps a bit insanely early- but the principle of the matter was that Arthur was hungry and his cooking skills were 'developing' and he needed a professional like Francis to remedy his problem!

A shudder ran through Arthur's body at the thought of how big Francis's head would get if he ever heard Arthur refer to anything he did as 'professional'. Francis's libido paled in comparison to his ego, and that was a magnificent feat if Arthur ever heard one.

He shifted until he was sitting upright and looked around the room dejectedly. If Francis wasn't up to it, he _supposed _he could… do it himself. He was a big boy, after all. And who knew? Maybe there was some leftover roast beef, surely they couldn't have eaten all of it.

Francis made no movement when Arthur removed himself from the bed. In fact, Arthur could hear soft snores already, and he made a mental note to hold that against Francis in future.

He cursed Francis as he trudged his way to the kitchen, grumbling obscenities and firmly telling himself he would never again let Francis tweeze his precious eyebrows… even if he did slightly enjoy it.

The world was terribly unfair to have given Arthur the will to get out of bed and go to the kitchen to sate his greed, only to open the refrigerator to no roast beef, no substantial foodstuff, and several opened condiments. The pantry revealed nothing but cartons of stock.

Arthur spread and then licked ketchup, relish and mint jelly from a plate that night. Francis heard about it at a more decent hour in the morning, and made a mental note to buy something cracker-like for future bouts of late night English rumbly tummies.


	6. Tea Troubles

If Arthur thought his first headache of the day was not going to be one of the usual Francis-related irritations, he would have bought a lottery ticket if had guessed two innocuous bowls of white grain would be the cause of immense frustration. Francis using up all the hot water, Francis leaving the bathroom cabinet open, Francis kicking the sheets off in the middle of the night, Francis hogging the toilet; anything usually Francis-related would have probably been preferable when compared to accidentally putting salt in his morning tea.

"Stupid frog," he muttered under his breath, "can't use different lids, can't use different bowls, can't use labels, can't put them on different shelves." He crouched slightly and leaned in close for inspection, squinting his eyes as if to turn on some form of microscopic vision.

Both bowls sat on the kitchen counter patiently as Arthur scrutinised them.

"Stupid frog," he said a little louder as his frustration grew, "always making life difficult. No fucking logic in that Frenchy brain of his, all bloomin' wine and roses. If we run out of lavender soap it's the news of the day, but can he label the sugar and salt bowls-? Nnnnooooooo."

Arthur's last word was so affronted and drawn out that it caught the attention of an unwanted but target audience.

Francis poked his head around the kitchen sliding door from his seat in the dining room, not even bothering to get up. His reading glasses at the tip of his nose, he sniffed at Arthur. "Is something the matter?"

"No, you stupid frog, just business as usual with your incompetence and bloody French clouded brain and-"

"Louder, _rosbif, _I cannot hear your wailing."

"I said WHICH ONE'S THE FUCKING SUGAR BOWL, ya' daft ponce."

With a heavy sigh, Francis flowed into the kitchen in a way Francis only could, already dressed for work and ready to prance out of the house at any moment, and perched himself snuggly against Arthur. "You know," he said in a hushed tone, "I used some sugar this morning for my lovely coffee."

There was quiet after that, he didn't say another word. Arthur turned his head slowly to find Francis nodding solemnly to himself. "That's it," said Arthur in disbelief, "that's all you're going to say about this."

Francis pursed his lips for added effect, and nodded his way out of the kitchen and back into the dining room.

Just about at his limit for one morning, Arthur turned back to the bowls and stared hard at them. Time was ticking, he had to get out of his pyjamas soon and get ready for work. Knowing his luck, traffic would be backed up to his driveway, so he'd have to leave sooner than later if he wanted to make it out of his front door without knocking his John Thomas on the boot of some asshole's car.

"I am leaving now, Arthur, Lottie is outside and I know how you cannot exchange niceties this early in the morning," said Francis from the living room, muffled shuffling of his jacket accompanying his speech. "I will be a little late home; Lottie has that copy of _Tintin _I didn't-"

"Yes, okay, bye," Arthur bristled, still eyeballing the bowls on the counter.

"Will you be able to do your tie by yourself?"

"Yes, bye."

"_Properly?_"

"I _said_ bye."

Francis chuckled. "Okay, goodbye, _rosbif_, I shall call you later."

The front door clicked shut as Arthur mumbled an inaudible goodbye of sorts. Now that Francis had left, it was down to business.

There was a fifty percent chance of choosing the sugar, but there was also an equal chance of getting it horribly wrong and choosing the salt. That would mean his tea would be undrinkable, he'd have to start the day without his morning tea, and the rest of the day would be a miserable pile of-

"Why don't I just taste the damn thing," Arthur deadpanned aloud to himself.

Quickly he twisted off the lid of the bowl on the right, took the smallest pinch of grain physically possible with his stubby fingers, and placed it on his tongue.

It tasted salty. His face scrunched up slightly at the taste of salt sans chips, but let it dissolve on his tongue and swallowed it anyway. Arthur let out a 'gah' of distaste, turned on the kettle to boil water, and grumbled his way into the bathroom to wash out his mouth and get ready.

Once the kettle signalled the water was ready, Arthur came out mostly dressed, still grumbling but in slightly higher spirits at the prospect of tea. He dumped a teabag into his mug, too much in a hurry for his usual proper tea with cup and saucer, and poured in the water. He twisted open the lid of the other bowl, cursing Francis the entire time, and carelessly heaped in some sugar, not letting it dissolve before putting in the milk. Not the best tea in the world but it would have to do.

He put on his shoes and socks hurriedly, and made his way for the front door, grabbing his tea, jacket, brief case and keys along the way. He juggled everything in his hands to lock the door with expertise only achieved when one has done this countless times before, and headed for his car.

Once his jacket and briefcase were in the backseat, his car was in the ignition and he in the front seat, Arthur breathed out a mildly happy sigh and finally allowed himself a sip of his tea-

And promptly spat it out all over his steering wheel and dashboard. The saltiness was enough to make him want to gag, and he struggled with the car door for a second before swinging it open and leaning out of the vehicle. He managed to save his car from ruin despite the few stray droplets that dotted his seat, and tipped out the tea onto the driveway before it could do any more damage.

Arthur panted, trying to work up saliva to cleanse his mouth and spat that out too. He could have _sworn_ he used the unopened bowl, the one that should not have been the salt, because that bowl was already open. There was no way he took salt from the open bowl-

Unless both of the bowls had salt in them.

And then it dawned on Arthur. Francis was up unusually early, unusually happy for a morning, and unusually quick to leave the house.

Suddenly feeling someone watching him, Arthur looked up quickly to see Francis and his Cheshire grin beaming at him from Charlotte's car. She saluted him, and Francis grinned all the way as Charlotte drove off until they were out of sight.

Later that evening, Arthur would make a fuss about all the extra salt they had and Francis would merely wave it off and tell him salt doesn't go off-

But for the moment, the neighbourhood watched on as Arthur bolted from his car and down the street, yelling obscenities, in a futile attempt to catch up to Francis and Charlotte, who kept the car just at just the right speed that Arthur couldn't catch them and Francis could still taunt him.

A lot could be said for headaches, but Francis-related headaches were the bane of Arthur's existence and one of the few reasons he'd ever like mornings.


	7. Blanket Bungles

A shiver ran up Arthur's body, right from the tip of his toes all the way to the back of his neck. His eyes snapped open, only to slam shut again in frustration.

"Francis." His voice was sleep-rough but still had an air of anger. Opening his eyes again, none too gently he prodded the wall of blanket in front of his face, warm and cosy Frenchman on the other side.

"Francis," he said again and again, accenting his irritation with more prodding, increasing with power and depth into Francis's back each time. "Francis, y'ponce, gimme back the blanket."

Sleep-slurred as his voice was, it seemed as though Arthur's words managed to penetrate the barrier of fabric and reach Francis's ears, because he let out a sighed "No" and promptly tightened the blanket around his body.

Arthur bunched a lump of the blanket and _yanked _as hard as he could, teeth grit, huffing and grunting when Francis's hold would not give. He pulled and pulled, twisting this way and that, and even kicked Francis in the back and bottom for good measure, but still the blanket was not released.

If every other night had taught Arthur anything, it was that he was fighting a losing battle; Francis had the blankets by a death grip, and even prying them from his cold dead hands would probably cause him trouble. So there was only solution.

Arthur tightened all the muscles in his body and relaxed, rolling out his shoulders and disturbing Francis enough to garner a mumbled 'shtop'. He sighed and gathered up the will until he finally rolled over and swung his legs over the bed and stood up in one motion.

He plodded over to their wardrobe, feet heavy, not caring at all at the dull thuds that filled the dark and empty room. There was no sign of sunlight through the blinds and no sound of birds, and through his barely functioning brain, Arthur made a mental note to decaffeinate Francis's coffee at a saner hour. Eyes half closed, he opened the wardrobe with just as much callousness, and he blindly felt around for the extra duvet they had for the colder months, grabbed it, closed the wardrobe and plodded right back to bed.

He fell into bed like a rag-doll filled with stones, sweeping the duvet over him until it settled neatly over his body. Happily sighing, Arthur snuggled into bed and went back to sleep-

Francis mumbled and half sat up in bed, only to twist mid-motion and fall back down, this time facing Arthur, and threw an arm over him. He hugged Arthur closed to him forcefully, frizzy hair styled by the bed going up Arthur's nose and poking him in the eye. Francis sighed and nuzzled into Arthur's shoulder.

All this would have soured Arthur if Francis didn't look so darn cute and vulnerable while doing it. He decided to let it go, shifting slightly to accommodate Francis, and even reached under the blankets to touch Francis's other hand.

"Mmmm'Arthur, it's so hot," said Francis, and kicked off the blanket Arthur had wanted back before. He then snuggled his way under Arthur's duvet, and began rolling away from Arthur in strangely measured intervals.

If Francis didn't get any coffee at all in the morning, it sure as hell wouldn't be Arthur's fault.


End file.
